A Peculiar Pilgrimage
by Dreamcatcher38
Summary: A proper Victorian hotel manager, Arthur Kirkland, is friends with one of the hotel's many guests, a certain Alfred F. Jones. Alfred is an annual American visitor to the hotel, who has been turning up every August for years. But when Arthur starts to get attacked more frequently, the two realize they have more in common than they thought. AU USUK, maybe Spamano, and others.
1. An Expected Visitor

**Not great at the description for this one. We'll see where it goes. I have some ideas.**

**Multi-chaps are usually a tough one for me (so is USUK), so reviews will decide if I continue or not. So be sure to review if you like it enough to warrant it's continuation.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Good afternoon, sir. Will you be checking in?" the hotel manager addressed the man in front of him.

"Ja, a double room please. Under Beilschmidt," replied the man rubbing away a headache no doubt caused by the incessant chatter of the albino man next to him with the bellhop.

The manager, Arthur, lifted the guestbook from the workspace onto the counter between himself and Mister Beilschmidt. He risked a glare over at the bellhop, Antonio, on whom it was completely lost.

"Ludwig and Gilbert?" Arthur asked the two guests.

"Ja," Mister Beilschmidt replied. It was unclear to Arthur who was Ludwig and who was Gilbert presently.

"I've set aside room twelve. It should do nicely. The window provides a most excellent view of the countryside. If you could just sign here, Mister Beilschmidt," Arthur described, trying to coax a smile out of his guest.

"Please, Ludwig," Ludwig replied as he meticulously signed in the space.

"Thank you, Ludwig," Arthur replied, lowering the guestbook onto the workspace once again. "Payment is at check out. Our chef, Francis, will be serving dinner in the dining room starting at 6 pm. Antonio will take your bags. Antonio?"

The conversation between the albino and Antonio continued in earnest.

"BRUDER!" Ludwig shouted suddenly, making Arthur jump. The albino barely stirred.

"Yes, Luddy?" he spun around, leaning his arm on Ludwig's shoulder.

Arthur added before Ludwig could snap at his brother, "Antonio, please take the Beilschmidts' bags upstairs to room twelve."

"Si, senor!" Antonio cried, picking up the bags with a chipper attitude and leading the way up the grand staircase.

"Next patron ple-Oh," Arthur stopped as the next in line stepped up to the counter. "Hello again."

A dapper young man stepped up to the counter in only shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows under glossy black suspenders, his alarmingly red coat draped over his arm. He leaned closer to Arthur over the counter until the manager could see the full effect of his dazzlingly blue eyes and charming smile. He blew a strand of his wheat blond hair out of his face until it stuck straight up off his head.

"Hullo Arthur!" cried the young man, his American accent thick and heavy against Arthur's British intonation. "What have you got for me this year?!"

Arthur grimaced to hide his internal smile and pushed the American off the counter with the guestbook.

"Alfred, what makes you think I've set anything aside?" Arthur demanded gruffly. "Have you made a reservation?"

Alfred's eyes saddened as his thin wired spectacles slipped down his nose. His face was plain with over exaggerated shock.

"No," Alfred drawled. "But I always turn up every year without fail. Don't tell me you haven't anything for me Arthur!"

Arthur tried to suppress a smirk and failed, the corners of his mouth twitching. He resigned and smiled at his long-time friend.

"Of course I have something put aside, you bloody idiot. Room four, as usual, across the hall from mine, so don't go getting ideas about being loud at all hours again or I _will_ throw you out this time," Arthur cautioned with a smirk.

"Is the apple tree still outside the window?" Alfred asked, his charming smile lighting his face once more as he took up the pen and signed the space in his messy cursive.

"Naturally," Arthur replied, looking down to finish up the paperwork in the guestbook on the workspace. "How else would Francis be able to make you apple tarts?"

Alfred smiled kindly with appreciation, the corners of his eyes softening.

"Drinks at seven at the Imp?" Alfred asked knowingly.

"I'm not sure," Arthur replied solemnly, peeking around Alfred to glance at the imaginary line of patrons behind the American. "I have a lot of fixing to do what with the recent wave of Americans on holiday, messing up my hotel. No courtesy is what your lot have. They broke the chandelier in the dining room! Thankfully covered the costs, but I still have the trouble of getting it replaced."

Alfred raised an eyebrow at Arthur's complaints, knowing it wouldn't be long before the manager agreed to drinks.

"I saw a whale," Alfred added randomly. "And what if I told you I got myself a girl?"

Arthur looked up at him sharply. "You did not."

Alfred smirked and laughed, loud and obnoxiously.

"Drinks?"

"Fine," resigned Arthur with a sigh. "I'll meet you at seven. Hopefully the blacksmith will be done with the new chandelier by then."

Alfred winked slyly at the manager before throwing his canvas bag over his shoulder and walking towards one of the hallways looping under the grand staircase.

"It's a date then!" he called to the echoing empty entranceway.

* * *

**Be sure to review if you want the story to continue!**


	2. And He Knew

The blacksmith came not long after, installing the new chandelier and giving Arthur plenty of time to light the candles before supper. Their light twinkled delightfully off the polished iron. Arthur disappeared before Alfred appeared in the dining room, slipping into the kitchen.

He encountered the cook, Francis, plating on the supper service for the incoming influx of guests.

"Onhonhon," Francis laughed. "Our most loyal customer has returned without fail…"

"Oh shut it Francis," Arthur scowled. "He's no better than the rest of those damn Americans, and worse in that he comes every year."

"I meant you, mon ami," Francis smiled at the frowning Englishman, tossing him a crème puff. "But yes, Alfred has returned, non?"

Arthur fumed, but ate the crème puff nonetheless.

"Did you hear him say he got himself engaged now? Engaged of all things!" Arthur exclaimed. "I cannot possibly imagine him in such a position. America must certainly be a very terrible place."

"Are you jealous?" Francis asked.

Arthur froze as he turned his back.

"Whatever would make you think such a thing?" Arthur asked incredulously.

"Je ne sais quoi. You are good friends, non? Perhaps he will not return next year?" Francis pondered.

"Or bring the blasted girl with him. Here. Oh God, I'm not sure which is worse…" Arthur pondered, sneaking out a side entrance into the lobby as Francis snickered behind him.

Arthur checked in a few new arrivals as he waited for the grandfather clock to chime the hour into the waiting lobby. And without fail, on the hour, the click of polished shoes stepped out of the chattering dining room into the quiet of the lobby.

Arthur looked up at the chime of the bell and spotted Alfred waiting by the door. His sleeves were buttoned and pinned and his shirt covered by an alarmingly bright gold fitted vest.

The manager rolled his eyes as he hid his smile. Taking his hat from the rack in the lobby, he approached his long-time friend, turning over the desk to a secretary.

"Well it certainly wasn't your sensibility of dress that got you your young lady, that's for certain," Arthur elaborated. "It's a ghastly colour."

Alfred shrugged. "It looks better with the red coat, but it's much too warm out. It's a gorgeous evening."

"I simply cannot believe you Americans are governed by any morals at all," Arthur expressed as they stepped out into the nightlife of the small town.

Secretly, Arthur did enjoy Alfred's flamboyant nature. The young lad's energy and colour always brightened the hotel each August. Arthur knew the American braved the seas each year to cross to his homeland for a visit to his parents.

The two walked in companionable silence, though each was itching to delve into the adventures of the last year. The questions spilled the minute the two were seated with a glass in front of them.

"So tell me more about this young lady," Arthur offered as a start to the conversation.

"Are you sure you don't want to hear about the whale?" Alfred asked, a slight disappointment in his voice.

"Despite having never left this blasted country," Arthur began to explain. "I have seen a whale before."

Alfred shrugged and smiled a toothy grin. "We should get you off this damn island sometime. A break could be good for you."

"Nonsense. Who would run the hotel? I promised my dear mother I would care for it first and foremost," Arthur said.

"Ah, you work far too much," Alfred said. "No time for girls of your own."

"Not my fancy in particular," Arthur replied comfortably.

Alfred looked confused but his eyes betrayed his pleading interest. "What do you mean?"

Arthur paled, realizing what he had said, and stuttered to cover up. "I mean, work first of course. Ladies are such trifle confusing things. Much too romantic."

"With the amount of poetry you read, you should be a romantic yourself," Alfred laughed.

Arthur fumed. "Enough about me, tell me about your blasted girl."

Alfred leaned back and smirked, his eyes going distant as he slipped into memory.

"Oh how I wish she could have braved the journey as well such that you could see her," Alfred drawled slowly as though he were a wordsmith penning an epoch. "Elegant and right beautiful she is. Long legs and swishing dresses. Regal golden curls, brown eyes, and a mind on her too. Hard to find that these days in a girl. Comes from as good a family as I'll ever hope for."

Arthur nodded. "And you love her of course. You wouldn't be any less of a sap."

"Yeah, I suppose so," Alfred pondered. "I'm not sure if it's genuine though. I often wonder if I'm chasing her because I'm supposed to, not because I want to."

"'Fraid I can't help you there, friend. I'm told it's one of those things you're just supposed to know," Arthur said, taking a sip of his drink.

"Well, I don't. But work hard and you'll do right by yourself," Alfred added. He raised his glass in a toast.

And as Arthur cheered his glass, he most certainly knew it was one of those things you just knew, even if Alfred did not.


	3. Wine On Your Overtime

_Recommended listening: "A Round Again" by The Once._

_A brief Spamano interlude, but Arthur and Alfred will be back soon._

* * *

"Schibe, you must be joking," the albino exclaimed.

"Non, why would I ever think of doing a thing like that?" Francis replied. "Logistically, it certainly was difficult, but eventually we all fit so long as I –"

"Nein! I don't need to hear anymore! I heard Frenchmen were ambitious, but this is something else," Gilbert said, shaking his head.

The German turned his head to look at the lolling brunette sitting across from him, Antonio's eyes lingering on something miles away from where they were seated in the hotel bar. The electric lighting flickered weakly.

Catching on, Francis followed Antonio's line of sight, which landed on another brunette with a peculiar curl poking out to one side. He scowled as he dried and stacked the glasses.

"Onhonhon," Francis laughed. "Someone's in love."

Gilbert wrinkled his brow. "Who's the youngin'?"

"One of the Vargas boys," Francis explained. "Keeps a good bar, but he's sour company. I don't understand why Arthur keeps him around. This place would be packed with a better bartender."

"Romano," Antonio breathed, sighing.

Gilbert's eyes followed the swishing skirts of a particular barmaid.

"As long as he keeps them coming, I could honestly care less," Gilbert said, taking another sip of his beer.

Francis turned his attention back to Antonio. "Really, 'Tonio. You should quit all this ogling and go after the boy. Maybe you'll make a little wine out of that sour patch of grapes."

Antonio was broken out of his reverie. "Hmmm… What about mi tomate?"

"You should buy him wine," Francis said, swishing his own glass.

"But… but… He's the bartender," Antonio said with a completely confused look on his face.

"Yes, but he cannot just take alcohol whenever he likes," Francis explained. "Arthur would see to his complete humiliation."

"Oh," Antonio said dumbly. He fished around in his change purse and mumbled as he added.

"Has Arthur given you your summer bonus yet?" Francis asked, eyeing the few coins the man had to choose from.

"No, I won't get it until the end of the month," Antonio said frowning.

Francis slid a few of his own coins across the wood to the young bellhop. "Go on, mon ami."

Antonio smiled a generous smile as he scooped up the coins and Francis pushed him off the chair towards Romano.

Tripping slightly on his own feet, two chairs, and drunken man lying on the floor, Antonio made it to lean on the bar before his legs gave out from under him with fear.

Romano turned his cynical dark eyes on the Spaniard and stopped polishing a hole in one of the bar glasses. Antonio had to actively remember to breathe. Romano was absolutely stunning in the low light of the bar.

"What do you want bastard," Romano growled, scowling.

"Um… Ah… Right. Si," Antonio said. "Um… Wine. Please?"

"For you?" Romano asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow, and unexpectedly smirking slightly. The slight change in expression made Antonio hold on tighter to the bar and scramble for a chair. "I didn't think bastards like you drank wine."

"It's not for me," Antonio replied quickly, sitting allowing more of his brain to focus on speaking instead of not fainting in front of Romano. "I mean, I do. I… I like wine, si. But… But it's for someone else."

"Ah, another for that god damned French bastard then," Romano sighed. "I should have figured. You're an idiot for buying him drinks. The stupid teabag pays him almost triple what he pays us, you know."

"Oh," Antonio said, remembering that for later. "But it's not for him either."

Romano stepped forward and leaned on the bar so he was mere inches from Antonio. The boy's shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows and his hands were red and dry from doing dishes. It was a much more casual outfit than Antonio's stiff red uniform.

"Who the hell else is buying wine?" Romano asked incredulously.

"Um… Me?" Antonio suggested.

"I thought you said it wasn't for you," Romano replied, confused.

"It's not," Antonio said.

"Then who is it for?" Romano asked, speaking slowly, suspicious.

"Um… It's… Si," Antonio mumbled. "About that…"

"Do you want wine now or not?" Romano growled angry. Antonio went into panic mode, speaking quickly and slamming the change on the bar.

"It'sforyouIthoughtyouwouldlikeit," Antonio said, burying his head in his arms.

"For me?" Romano asked, shocked. If Antonio had been looking up, he would have caught a rare appearance of Romano's award winning smile. But then again, had he been looking, the reaction might have been quite different.

Romano tallied the change peeking out from under Antonio's faded red elbow.

"There's enough here for two," Romano explained. "And business is slow. What kind do you want bastard?"

Antonio peeked one eye out over his elbow to spy Romano with his arms crossed, scowling and serious.

"Um… whatever you think is good?" Antonio suggested, sitting up and still not quite believing his luck.

With a swing of his hips, Romano raised his arm to summon the barmaid.

"Stella!" he called as a young girl came rushing over.

Romano smiled one of his most devilish of smiles and both the barmaid and Antonio swooned.

"The 1762 from the cellar, if you would, signora," Romano asked gently in his smoothest baritone, making Antonio nearly fall off his chair.

With a quiet giggle and a blush, the girl curtsied and hurried off in the direction of the cellar.

Romano turned to raise an eyebrow at Antonio's face. It was a weird amalgamation of shock, delight, and heartbreak. Not quite sure what to make of it, Romano went back to polishing glasses while he waited for Antonio to return from fairyland.

Out in the hall you could hear the loud scuffing and shuffling of feet being dragged through the foyer. If you listened closely, you could hear Alfred mutter 'Come on, Arthur. You're almost there.'

The boss was home early. Well, most of him.

* * *

_I might've been listening to too much Night Vale before I wrote it. And I might have seen White Christmas too. I apologize for Antonio's OOC-ness_

_Reviews mean I let you know what happened to Arthur._


	4. The Shaman

_Sorry for the Spamano break, it didn't seem to be to popular. I'll try to mix it in with the USUK in the future._

_We'll get back to USUK shortly. Here's a bit of Alfred's back story to lure you in._

* * *

"Come on, Arthur," Alfred grumbled, his teeth clenched under the weight of dragging Arthur through the foyer. "You're nearly there."

The response he received was a series of unintelligible mumblings from Arthur. The Brit's head lolled forward into his shirt as his eyelids drooped.

"Oh no you don't," Alfred scolded, pausing to tighten the knot of the gold vest tied to Arthur's bicep. Arthur winced in pain, shooting him back into alertness.

"Bloody hell, what was that for?" Arthur swore. A mix of pain and alcohol had done away with the gentlemanly countenance.

Reaching Arthur's room, Alfred shifted Arthur's weight onto his shoulder and jiggled the handle. Locked.

"Do you have the key, Artie?" Alfred asked as politely as he could.

"Don't…" Arthur began, then dropped to his knees outside the door. "Don't call me Artie."

Wincing as he twisted to a sitting position, Arthur leaned against the door with laboured breathing.

Alfred grimaced at him, crossing his arms. Arthur drifted off again into sleep and Alfred's expression turned to one of concern. His Artie was fading fast.

Turning, Alfred ran back to the front desk, leaping over the counter and started to rummage through the papers tucked away on shelves in search of a key to room three. Finding a box of keys, he started to rummage through the numbers.

Hearing the jingling of the keys in the box, Francis stepped out of the bar into the lobby to check on the front desk, spotting Alfred in his frantic search.

"Alfred, what are you doing back there?" Francis asked lightly.

Alfred looked up at Francis, panic clear on his face. He just shook his head and went back to rummaging through the keys.

"Arthur's… passed out. Sort of. I need the key to his room," Alfred explained.

"Onhonhon. Arthur doesn't keep a key for room three at the desk. It's in his office," Francis replied. "Allons-y. But don't be so desperate. It's not the first time he's been drunk, let me tell you."

"I wish it were just that," Alfred said as he followed Francis into the office.

Francis raised an eyebrow at the concern in Alfred's voice as he lit the candle in the office and fiddled in one of the desk drawers.

"Go on," Francis prompted, tossing the key ring at Alfred.

"He also might've gotten beat up and stabbed…" Alfred trailed off, not looking at Francis in the face.

"And where were you?" Francis asked.

"Paying for our drinks," Alfred replied. "I shoved them off, but the damage was done."

Francis sighed and mumbled something in French Alfred didn't entirely catch. All he understood were the words _again_ and _brothers_.

"We should call for a doctor," Francis said, walking to the phone in the lobby.

"No," Alfred replied. "It's nothing I can't patch up."

Francis gave him a look. "_You_ are a doctor?"

"Not exactly," Alfred said, rubbing the back of his neck and leading Francis back to where Arthur lay slumped against the door. "But you pick up a thing or two when doctors are few and far between. Arthur just needs stiches. I've dealt with much worse."

Francis looked at Alfred skeptically as the American knelt down in front of Arthur and yanked on the knot again. Arthur just startled in his sleep but failed to wake up. Alfred sighed and unlocked the door.

"Give me a hand lifting him onto the bed?" Alfred asked Francis.

"Of course, mon ami," Francis said, lifting Arthur over his shoulder like he weighed next to nothing. Alfred looked at him in shock.

"Comes from lifting bags of flour and carrying this one home too many nights," Francis explained, winking. "But explain these far worse injuries."

Alfred wasted no time puttering about the room, seizing a bottle of alcohol from the table, a cloth from the bathroom, and a needle and thread from the basket of cross stitching sitting next to a chair. Arthur groaned and tensed as Francis dropped him on the bed.

"You know… Bullet wounds, bits of glass stuck in the skin, blood loss, scurvy, missing limbs… and other appendages…" Alfred mumbled as he soaked the cloth with alcohol.

"Mon dieu," Francis said incredulously. "Amerique, I never believed it could be quite as barbaric as Arthur seems to think, but he must have been right."

"It's not America," Alfred shook his head solemnly. "When I first came there, I spent a great deal of time with people who had fought in the Civil War. They knew a thing or two from the field. Then I worked on a ship. Pirates, bad seas, sailing accidents. You pick up a thing here and there. Apparently I have a skill. They called me the Shaman."

Alfred cut a piece of string with his knife and threaded the needle with deftness. Francis climbed on the other side of the bed and sat cross legged.

"Have you told Arthur?" Francis asked.

Alfred rolled his sleeves as he replied. "No. He knows I ran away from home for America when I was younger and now I'm a merchant, but he doesn't really ask much about my past. So I don't ask much about his."

"Would you like to know? Did you not ever wonder how he came to own the hotel?" Francis asked.

"I think I'd rather Artie tell me if he likes," Alfred replied, untying the bloodstained vest from Arthur's arm.

Before Alfred could do anything else, Francis reached over and undid the buttons on Arthur's shirt with little too practiced fingers.

"I think you should tell him about it," Francis said. He carefully pulled off the shirt sleeve to reveal skull and crossbones tattooed to Arthur's arm just above the deep bleeding gash. "Someone dreamed of being a pirate once and sailing the seven seas with reckless abandon, not landlocked to this horrible island. He would adore hearing your adventures."

The revelation caught Alfred for a moment, but then he shook his head and gingerly lifted Arthur's arm with one hand, and the alcohol soaked cloth with the other.

"Maybe someday," Alfred began. "Maybe if he comes to America."

* * *

_So both our heroes are harbouring secrets. Will Alfred tell his? Will we find out more about Arthur's past? Will Arthur go to America?_

_Review to find out! Hope you enjoyed._


	5. Wanderlust

_Merry Christmas! I'm probably dragging this story out more than necessary, but here we are. a good dose of England for you. We'll get to some USUK action soon. For now just enjoy them marveling at each other._

_Recommended__ listening: Wanderlust by Abney Park_

* * *

Alfred brought the cloth carefully down on the gash and the sting jolted Arthur awake.

"Bloody hell, what in the name of God is that?!" Arthur asked incredulously, ripping his arm away from Alfred's hand and wincing as he regretted the quick movement.

"I have to clean it," Alfred said calmly and seriously. "Then I'll stitch you up just fine. You'll heal in less than a week or so."

The Brit's emerald green eyes held their gaze steadily on Alfred for a moment, but Alfred's sky blue ones were filled with only genuine concern and gentleness. He carefully passed his arm back to Alfred.

"Thank you Arthur," Alfred replied. "It's going to sting a little, but that's good. It's alcohol."

Arthur flinched at first as Alfred cleaned the wound, but then mellowed out to little winces of pain as he continued.

"Why is the frog here?" Arthur asked. "And why is he on my bed? And why's my shirt off?"

"He helped me find the key to your room when you were… otherwise disposed," Alfred explained. "I can't say for the rest."

"I am assisting Alfred, and we needed your shirt off to attend to your injury," Francis said.

Alfred put down the cloth and picked up the needle he had threaded earlier, tying off the ends.

"It's going to poke a bit," Alfred said, trying to make his stitches as smooth as possible, which was difficult with Arthur's squirming.

"Just get the damn thing over with," Arthur grumbled.

"Was it your brother again?" Francis asked.

Arthur was silent.

"Arthur, I asked you-"

"I will tell you later," Arthur said, pausing before adding, "when my head is clearer."

Alfred tugged sharply on the string, knotted it, and cut off the extra with his teeth. He then took off his own shirt and ripped it into strips, using one to wrap around the wound he had just stitched shut and knotting it under the arm.

"So where did you learn to be a doctor?" Arthur asked to break the silence as Alfred tided up the materials he had used to heal Arthur.

Alfred paused for a minute under Francis' expectant gaze before replying with, "America."

Francis rolled his eyes before adding, "Alfred was just telling me about working on a sailing ship."

Alfred glared at the Frenchman, but Arthur's eyes lit up with an excitement Alfred had never seen in his friend.

"Yes, I saw the tattoo on his shoulder," Arthur said.

Francis turned to look. Inked on Alfred's shoulder was an Anchor and surrounded by a number of birds. He looked confused.

"The anchor is for crossing the Atlantic, and the Swallows are for the number of miles spent sailing," Arthur explained. "You've been sailing for years, Alfred. Why didn't you say? You said you were a merchant, but I didn't think you a sailor."

Resignedly, Alfred turned around. "Used to sail. Not so often anymore. Only when I need to come to England."

"I always wondered how you could afford the trip across so frequently," Arthur asked, his eyes lingering a little too long on Alfred's chest. "I just imagined you were wealthy."

"Not that wealthy," Alfred said, standing at the end of the bed. "But the tattoos don't mean much. You mean to tell me you were _actually_ a pirate?"

"When I was younger," Arthur admitted, looking away.

"Non!" Francis exclaimed. "You told me you only wished you were!"

"I might have lied, frog," Arthur said. "It's not exactly something you babble off to everyone."

"He wouldn't have the tattoo otherwise," Alfred said knowingly, smirking and leaning on the bedposts. Arthur nodded and smiled back.

"Mon dieu, we have some delightful stories to tell," Francis exclaimed. "Do begin so I can tell des beau filles how I came to know a merchant and a pirate who became best friends."

Neither moved to speak, lost in their own memories.

"Arthur, mon dieu, whatever possessed your mother to allow you to go off and do such a thing?" Francis prompted when he couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"She didn't," Arthur explained. "But I might as well begin at the beginning for Alfred's sake.

"My mother used to own the hotel before I did. My father died in battle while she was with child and she moved out here to a Kirkland estate he had purchased some time before. I grew up helping out with odd jobs around the hotel as it grew. But as a boy I always dreamed of sailing and seeing the world. I used to go to market with the cook and hear magnificent stories of pirates and explorers. Struck with wanderlust, you could say. One day I got sick of the countryside, and frustrated with my mother I left in search of adventure.

"I used some of the odd change I had saved up to take a train into London where I made connections with the underground, and in a roundabout way, ended up on board a pirate ship bound for Asia. I saw a great deal of the world; The great pyramids of Egypt, the rugged outback of Australia, the rich and vibrant colour of the Indias. When I reached India, I got my tattoo, a mark of my voyages, like you Atlantics and your anchors. I had satisfied my wanderlust, but I could never get adjusted to the bloodlust. You become an expert swordsman quickly as a pirate. Not so much in the medical department I'm afraid."

"How'd you come to own the hotel, then?" Alfred asked, confused.

"Nearly three years later, we returned to port in Southampton, and I made my escape back to my mother in the countryside," Arthur said. "But I returned to find her ill of health, and my brothers off engaging in street crimes and other underground exploits. She was surprisingly delighted to see me, and told me that for all my rebellion, I had been the wisest of all my siblings. She bequeathed the hotel to me on her death, and made me swear I would care for it in her name for the rest of my days. And here I am."

"But you made enemies of your brothers," Francis said.

"Yes," Arthur agreed. "They wanted to profit off of the sale of the hotel to pay their debts. They were not too pleased when their pirating brother returned from the seas and inherited the fortune. They thought me lazy and undeserving. They've been threatening me ever since."

"Why didn't you tell me, Arthur?" Alfred asked. "I know people. I have connections. I could have done something."

"Why didn't you tell me you were a sailing merchant?" Arthur asked.

"Touché," Alfred replied.

"But no matter," Arthur said. "It is a quarrel between myself and my brothers, no more. I don't believe it will kill me any time soon. And I've faced worse from the swords of the English Navy than I have from my nationalist brothers."

The room was silent again for a moment. Until Arthur added, "It was my brothers who attacked me this evening. But just their usual teasing – nothing unexpected. They caught me drunk and exploited the opportunity. It's my own fault really."

"It shouldn't be," Alfred replied, with a touch of heroics in his voice. "We could do something about them."

"Victoria's doing enough to them already, the bloody wankers," Arthur said. "But we've talked enough about me for one night. I believe it's your turn Alfred. Tell us, how did a born Englishman turned bloody Yankee become an Atlantic fairing merchant?"

* * *

_So. What's Alfred's story? It might have more in common with Arthur's than he knows._

_Hope you liked it. iI know my pacing is long winded and terrible. Thanks for sticking with me. :)_

_Next chapter might not be up for a bit, my computer is having issues._

_Reviews keep me writing. ;)_


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